


Talk Me Down

by foxtrot_12



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Depressed Victor Nikiforov, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Supportive chris, Viktor is a whole ass mess but nobody except for Chris and Yakov know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 11:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16017062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot_12/pseuds/foxtrot_12
Summary: Chris knows Viktor's tells. He's never let Viktor get too close to the edge, not if he's there, not if he can help it. Chris knows his best friend.(But even Chris' proper judgment can be muddled, sometimes.)





	Talk Me Down

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic was entirely inspired by [this](http://paledreamsblackmoths.tumblr.com/post/161120737600/some-very-important-christophe-giacommeti-viktor) set of headcanons, specifically the thirteenth (second last) one about Chris being the reason why Viktor's still alive. All these headcanons are my lifeblood and I'd be damned if I never wrote anything regarding them lol.
> 
> Anyways, this fic is NOT beta'd (as usual), so all mistakes are my fault and my fault only. As with all my other fics, this one was also written in one night, in one sitting (because that's how I write, apparently). 
> 
> WARNINGS: This fic contains mentions of past suicide attempts and a suicide attempt in the present timeline of the fic. If any of this is triggering for you, please do not read.
> 
> And with that, if you decide to read, I hope you enjoy!

Another European Championships, here and gone like the wind. Christophe Giacometti, 20 years old and a rising senior star, steals silver. He’s second to only the best, living legend in the making, Viktor Nikiforov. Chris wears a giant smile on his face as he makes his way out of the rink, gleaming medal in tow. He skated his best, and it paid off. He was proud of himself, sure, but he couldn’t be more proud of his best friend for claiming his second gold of the season. Christophe only knows the half of how hard Viktor works on his routines. He’s listened to Mila babble countless times over how long Viktor spends at the rink and how much effort he puts into practice. He deserved the gold medal, but that doesn’t mean that Chris isn’t ready to sweep it out from under him when he catches up.

Chris stops in the lobby of the arena, looks around. He doesn’t see the gold medalist in question anywhere, which to him, is odd. Considering he won gold, and has the reputation that he does, Christophe expects that Viktor would be handling his customary, post-competition interviews. They usually catch him the second he leaves the rink, how unfair for him; the interviewers almost never allow him time to retrieve his belongings from the dressing room first before bombarding him with questions. Viktor never did seem to mind though-- he always greeted the reporters with his million dollar smile and cheerful voice that never failed to light up the entire room. 

Viktor wasn’t there, but the reporters were. That should have been the first sign for Chris that something was wrong, but it didn’t click inside his brain. He thought it was unusual to not run into Viktor and his influx of interviewers on his first step out of the rink, sure, but he didn’t think much of it.

That was his first mistake.

Christophe continued his tread to the dressing rooms, grin still lingering complacently as he opened the door. He gave a short wave to Michele Crispino, who made a not-so-great senior debut over the past few days, as he walked out, chuckling softly when he’s greeted with a grimace. Chris couldn’t help but pity the younger skater-- he had delivered an amazing short program and had held steady in third after the first day, but fell and wobbled on one too many skills during his free skate an landed himself in last place. Nerves, Christophe presumed, and sighed softly. They get the best of everyone, even stone-faced Italians, he supposes.

Chris is so lost in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even register that he isn’t alone in the room. He’s brought out of his daydream when he hears a soft thump from the other side of the room. Peering up, Chris is more than surprised to see Viktor himself, hunched over on one of the benches and shuffling through his skating bag. “There you are,” Christophe says, gently, much more gentle than he expected from himself. Viktor peers up, offers a small smile, so unlike the ones he throws out like candy at the public, and resumes searching his bag. Odd, Chris thinks to himself, but not surprising. After two days, everyone, even the great Viktor Nikiforov, is expected to be drowsy. 

Christophe takes his lack of verbal response in stride, grabbing his own belongings from his locker and taking a seat next to Viktor. “How does it feel to come out on top again?” Chris prods, bumping his shoulder into his friend’s. Testing, watching his reactions. Chris is glad when Viktor laughs softly, nudging him back.

“It feels nice,” Viktor responds. “It’s nice to know that my efforts mean something,” and Chris smiles. He thinks Viktor is awfully modest for someone who already has a plethora of gold medals under his belt, and he supposes that’s one of the reasons why Christophe admires him so much. He never lets the fame, the achievements, or the money get to his head. He’s stayed Viktor throughout it all, and Chris is more than satisfied with his friend's consistency. His level-headedness is one of his best qualities, Chris thinks.

“I may not have beaten you here, but worlds are going to be mine, Nikiforov,” he threatens, a grin bubbling over when Viktor shakes his head, sporting a slightly larger smile than earlier.

“We’ll see about that,” is Viktor’s only response, and Christophe really should have realized when Viktor didn’t shove him, challenge him, call him ‘Giacometti’ right back in his face. But he didn’t. If Christophe stopped to analyze the scenario at any time, he’s sure he would have noticed. Would have realized the struggle Viktor was having with keeping his smile kosher, the way his hands were squeezing the fabric of his free skate costume tight enough to turn his knuckles white, the subtle waver in his voice when he spoke. For some reason, he realized none of these things, way too hyper-focused on organizing his bag as quickly as possible to spare his friend more than a short glance.

They pack up their things in relative silence, Chris humming a soft tune as he pulls his jogging pants and t-shirt on. A soft sigh causes him to look back at Viktor, watching him as he zips his bag up. He could have sworn that he saw a hint of sadness in his friend's eyes as he pulled the straps of his bag over his shoulder and stood up, but it seemed almost impossible when he’s flashing one of his signature, eye crinkling smiles the next second. “Bye, Chris,” he says solemnly, smile dampening a bit.

“Yeah, see you in twenty minutes, in our hotel room,” Chris chuckles out, tone soft and joking. He hears Viktor let out a short puff of air through his nose, a sad attempt at laughter, and doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Viktor quickly turns his back, opening the door and letting it close behind him gently.

Chris really should have noticed by now.

He continued packing, though, whistling to the tune of his free skate as he pristinely folds his costumes and places them in his bag. Viktor seemed a little off to him, sure, but he assumed it was the exhaustion. His friend had worked himself to the bone for his medal, and there was no way he wasn’t going to collapse onto his bed and immediately pass out the second his head hit the pillow. Christophe smiles softly at the thought. He definitely deserved some rest after the show he put on over the past couple of days.

Finally zipping up his bag, Chris slung it over his shoulder and exited the locker room. He grabs his phone from his pocket, and unlocks it at the sight of a new message from Sara, Michele’s sister. Not odd, he supposes-- they’ve become natural party buddies ever since she turned 18, and often met up when they were at the same competitions. There was no better time to go out then after a competition, and Sara seemed to agree.

**Sara C.: Hey Chris, wanna go out for drinks tonight? Don’t tell Mickey!!! :)**

Chris chuckles at this. There was no way Michele, overprotective twin extraordinaire, would condone Sara going out to get drinks with Chris. Christophe doubts he would let her go out with any skater, but definitely not Chris.

He really should say no. He doesn’t want to get Sara in trouble, and he doesn’t want to get too shitfaced before his flight tomorrow morning. He really, _really_ should say no.

**Christophe G.: I would love to. Do you mind if I invite Viktor?**

Chris smiles as he types out his text, making his way through the arena lobby and out the door. There was no way he could say no to drinks, not after such an amazing performance from himself. Despite how tired Viktor seemed when he left the locker room, he completely deserved a night out to let loose and celebrate as well. Besides, if Viktor was in town, a night out wasn’t a real night out without him present. His phone snaps him out of his monologue when it beeps.

**Sara C.: OMG!!! Of course not!! Invite him!!!!!! :))))**

That gets a hearty laugh out of Christophe. Even to the female skaters, Viktor was no less of a legend. He types back a quick text of affirmation, receiving the place and time in response. He then opens another chat, one with Viktor, and contemplates how to word his message. He decides to go with straightforward.

**Christophe G.: Divino’s at 8. You in?**

He quickly leaves the chat, pocketing his phone and beginning to walk down the sidewalk. The European Championships being held in Switzerland this year has its perks-- he knows Bern like the back of his hand. It’s unfortunate that his house was closer to the countryside of Switzerland, though, as he could have saved on a hotel if it was closer. It was too bad, but not a total loss. This way, he got his coach to let him room with Viktor, and was able to spend some quality time with his best friend. Even though they were only in their hotel room to sleep, they still had a great time over the past few days, staying up way later than they should have to exchange stories and laughs. Chris smiles fondly at the memories, letting them sit high on his chest as he strolls down the road.

Not long after, he recognizes his text tone and fumbles to grab his phone out of his pocket. A text from Viktor; Chris reads the message, and frowns.

**Viktor N.: Not tonight. Sorry, Chris. Have fun, you deserve it.**

Chris doesn’t know how to respond. He didn’t, not even in the back of his mind, think that Viktor would decline. Viktor loved to party, especially on when both he and Chris medal at the same competition. It had become somewhat of a tradition. Even before they were allowed in clubs in juniors, they always found a way to celebrate, whether it be stealing old and shitty beer from banquets, or staying up as late as they could and watching awful romantic comedies together. No matter what, they always spend the night with each other after their successful competitions, and he wasn’t sure why this particular one was an exception. 

Sighing, Christophe sends off a text of confirmation with no shortage of frowny faces, stuffing his hands back in his pockets and pouting to himself. He was at least going to stop in at the hotel before he went. He wanted to drop his bag off and change, give Viktor one last chance to join him and Sara’s pursuit. 

It doesn’t take long to get back to the hotel. Christophe gets there at about 7:30, giving him a decent amount of time to change, shower, and possibly change Viktor’s mind about spending the night in. He’s already thinking of things to say to change his friend’s mind in the elevator, rehearsing what he’ll say on the walk to their room. He hums as he pulls his keycard out of his wallet, ready to greet Viktor.

Admittedly, he’s fairly surprised when he opens the door, and Viktor isn’t in the room. Confused, Christophe pulls his phone out again, and sends Viktor a “where are you?” text. He’s even more shocked when he hears a text tone from across the room, the one Viktor’s always had, the one he’s used since he was 17. 

Viktor never goes anywhere without his phone, this, Chris knows for certain. Not when he’s in a foreign country, not when he’s alone, not ever. Christophe rushes over to where Viktor’s phone was left on the small coffee table, unlocking it, because Viktor doesn’t use a password, never has. He opens the text he got from himself, intakes a sharp breath at the words left in the message bar. It reads, **”Thank you for being such an amazing best friend, Chris. I’ll miss you.”**

Then it finally, horrifically, clicks.

Chris drops Viktor’s phone, and his world starts spinning. He reaches out to the chair in front of him to avoid falling over, a litany of “no”’s spilling past his lips. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe himself. How could he be so oblivious? It was so obvious; the locker room, the texts, the forced laughs. Viktor’s fake smile burns itself in Christophe’s brain, threatens to shut him down, coerce him into darkness. Viktor had gotten bad again, and Chris didn’t even notice. He’s such an awful, horrible friend. 

After a moment of collecting himself, he fumbles for his phone, unlocking it at lightning speed and calling who’s probably one of his only hopes in finding Viktor. He drums his fingers against the back of the chair, high on anxiety, praying that his call will be answered.

”Christophe?”

_”Coach Yakov,”_ he breathes, voice much more unstable than he expected. “Thank goodness you picked up. Have you seen Viktor?”

“Vitya?” he gets in response, questioning. “No, I haven’t seen him, not since the arena. Why? Is something wrong?”

Christophe takes a deep break. “He- Viktor, I think… Yakov, he’s gotten bad again. I just now realized this. I think he’s going to…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, hoping that Yakov will take the hint.

He hears a gruff, frustrated sigh on the other end of the call, followed by what he can only recognize as Russian curses. “When did you last see him, and where?” Yakov interrogates, angry, worried.

“I last saw him at the rink,” Chris recalls. “But I texted him on my way back to the hotel room. His last answer was about ten minutes ago.”

There’s a short, tense pause. “So he cannot have gotten far,” Yakov confirms, then, further away from the phone, “I can’t believe this, that damn boy…”

While another silence ensues, Chris thinks. He thinks harder than he ever has in his life. Thinks back to Viktor’s past episodes, where he went, what he tried to do. The first time he encountered Viktor contemplating taking his life, he was 15 and Viktor was 17. It was the night of the men’s short program, and Christophe had found Viktor, feet dangling off of the hotel roof, hair billowing around his shoulders, staring at the ongoing traffic below. His arms were behind him, shaking, pushing himself further and further to the edge. Chris had froze-- he had only spoken with Viktor a few times before this encounter, all of which were painfully short. Christophe remembered thinking that he reminded him of a star, always shining and bright. Viktor had the most show-stopping smile and laugh. He couldn’t believe that his idol, the star of the junior division, was about to take his life right in front of his eyes. 

The other two times Chris experienced his best friend on the verge of suicide were under similar terms. It was always on a roof, always after or before a competition. Christophe also takes time to think about the times he sent Yakov to check on Viktor, frantic, convinced that Viktor was already dead. He would always force his friend’s coach to tell him what happened, if he was okay, and there was always a startling similarity; Viktor always tried to off himself by the method of jumping.

“I got it,” Christophe suddenly says, grabbing his key card and bolting to the door. “Yakov, I think I know where he is. I’m going to go talk him down, I promise he’ll be alright.”

“What?” Yakov bellows. “Where is he? I have to-”

Chris cuts him off, simultaneously fumbling with the door of his room. “Coach Yakov, I promise you, I have him this time. Please trust me. This is all on me.”

He hears Yakov sigh, wonders if the older coach has ever felt any sense of calm in his life. “Fine. I will trust you on this one. But Christophe Giacometti, I swear, if anything happens to him-”

At this point, Christophe has made a break for it, yanking open the door to the stairwell and all but sprinting up them. “Nothing will happen to him,” Chris vows, “He _will_ be okay. I have to go, I’m almost there. I’ll let you know when he’s okay. Bye, Yakov.” He hangs up without waiting for a reply, shoving his phone in his coat pocket and running even faster.

When he reaches the top, Christophe’s chest is heaving. He yanks open the final door, and suddenly, he’s 18 years old again, watching his best friend standing mere centimetres away from the edge of the roof, observing the traffic from 20 stories above traffic. His heart nearly shatters, and adrenaline pumps through his burning veins at record speed.

Once Chris finds his footing again, he takes a few steps forward, slowly. He doesn’t want to startle Viktor, not when the wind is this strong and it looks like he’s about to be knocked over by the breeze. 

When Chris takes his third step closer to Viktor, his heart nearly drops when his friend turns his head toward him. Christophe likes to think that he’s a master at the facial expressions of Viktor Nikiforov, more so than Viktor is himself. It always hurts him so to see this one, so blank but full of such pure, unadulterated pain. It tugs at his heartstrings, forms a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow down.

“Viktor,” he says, almost a whisper. He’s not even sure if he’s heard, not until Viktor fixes his vision to the ground, anywhere but Chris. Chris doesn’t get a response, so he steps closer. Viktor lets him.

“Viktor,” he repeats, sadness and concern threatening to flood his throat. This time, Viktor looks at him, and Chris can see the telltale glitter of tears in his friend’s eyes, and it takes all of his effort to stay as composed as possible, to not break down begging, to not cry. He clears his throat. “Please come down.”

Viktor only stares at him. He makes no move to come down, but he doesn’t move closer to the ledge, doesn’t move at all. He stays put, and Chris knows that if he didn’t show up when he did, Viktor would have jumped already. 

“Please,” Christophe whispers again, desperation leaking into his tone. He swallows again, wonders if he can get through this without crying. 

“Why?” 

Chris almost doesn’t believe what he’s heard. Out of all the times he’s helped Viktor from the ledge, he’s never seemed this disconsolate, this lost. Christophe was always able to get him to stop contemplating ending his life for the night in a matter of minutes. Something is different about this time. Viktor is so much worse than Chris initially thought, and that realization comes to him like a stab in the gut.

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Chris asks, terribly distressed, walking closer. “Viktor, you’re about to kill yourself. There are so many reasons why you can’t.”

Chris thinks his eyes are playing a trick on him when he sees a stream of tears roll down Viktor’s cheek, but knows it’s real when another one joins it. “No, there isn’t. Chris, I’m broken. I’m so broken. I win gold and my first thought isn’t happiness over it, it’s ‘Everyone only cares about your gold medals.’ If I didn’t win gold medals, I would be nothing. If I stop winning them, Yakov’ll hate me, I won’t have any friends, I won’t have a life,” he takes a gasping breath through his tears and words, shudders before continuing, “These gold medals measure my worth, and it’s so much pressure. I haven’t felt happy for so long. I’m always upset and I’m always stressed. I don’t deserve these medals. I deserve to die.”

On the last word, Viktor’s voice breaks around a sob, and Chris nearly lunges forward, grabbing onto both of Viktor’s forearms. It only proves to make Viktor sob harder, eyes closing and knees wobbling before giving out, bringing him down to eye level with Chris.

“Viktor,” he says urgently, trying to get his friend to look at him through his trembling weeping. “Viktor, please look at me, please listen to me. I need you to hear this.”

Heaving a deep breath through his shuddering lungs, Viktor opens his eyes, blue blurred by the thick layers of tears. They drop freely from his eyes, slipping down his flushed face and quivering lips. Chris takes in a sharp breath, and it’s all he can do to stay strong and hold back the tears threatening to breach his eyes. He needs to stay strong, for Viktor. Chris clears his throat, and starts speaking from his heart.

“You’re loved, Viktor, you’re so loved. By me, Yakov, Sara, Lilia, your fans, everyone. Your gold medals don’t define who you are. No matter what, we all love you so dearly. We care about you so much, medals or not.” Chris pauses, makes sure he has Viktor’s attention, and can’t resist pulling him closer when he sees the disbelief and despair on his face. “You are so incredibly deserving of happiness. You’re hard working, you’re kind, and you’re the strongest person I know for dealing with this every day and still being able to smile.”

Viktor shakes his head, wet tears smearing Christophe’s neck. “It’s so hard,” he forces out, “Sometimes I wake up and I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want to give up.”

“But you never _do_ ,” Chris insists, holding him tighter. “And you’re so strong for always getting up and going through the day. You’re worth so much more than this, Viktor, but you always take what you get and you deal with it. You have your entire mind against you, telling you not to get up and to just end everything, but you haven’t, and that’s so, so tough of you.”

“I almost have,” Viktor murmurs into his neck, sobs subsiding but still trembling just as hard. “Chris, I’ve thought of killing myself so many times and I almost have more times than I can count. I’m such a failure. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve you. I should be dead right now.”

A whimper almost escapes Chris’ throat, he feels his throat bob, he feels the hot tears that threaten to spill over. But he bites it all back. He can’t cry. As soon as he loses control, it’s over for both of them.

“I know Viktor, I know. But you haven’t died yet, which means you’re meant to be living. You may want to die now, but no storm lasts forever. You can get help, you… You can’t die, Viktor. You’re so important to me, to all of us, and I can’t imagine life without you.” Chris’ voice cracks on the last word, and he feels his resolve start to crumble, hanging on by only a mere thread.

Viktor says nothing in response, but Christophe can feel the hot tears again, back in full force, soaking through his shirt. He grips onto Chris’ shirt, and Chris holds him tight. They stay like that for a while, and Christophe loses all sense of time. They could have been there for hours, and he would have been none the wiser. But they stay long enough for Viktor to stop crying, for the trembling to calm down. By the time Chris pats Viktor on the back, urging him down from the ledge, his friend complies, and he barely can contain a sigh of relief.

When Viktor reaches the solid ground, his knees buckle. He’s about to fall over, but Chris is there, supporting him through it. He leans down and sweeps his arm under Viktor’s knees, hefting him up to his chest and carrying him. Viktor goes easy, burying his face in Christophe’s neck, sniffling, clearly exhausted and way too out of it to protest his current position. 

Chris carries him down the stairs to the closest floor with access to an elevator. He makes sure that no one is occupying it before entering, pushing the button to the fifth floor. They ride the elevator in relative silence, the only sound breaching it being the soft sniffs from Viktor every few seconds. They reach their floor, Christophe mentally sighing in relief when he sees nobody in the hallway.

They reach their room shortly after, Chris silently asking, “Can you stand?” to Viktor, in which he nods in affirmation to. Christophe plants him on his feet gently, reaching into his pocket once he knows Viktor is stable, keeping an arm around his shoulders for support anyway. He hovers the key card over the sensor, immediately pushing it open once it grants them access. Chris gently leads Viktor into the washroom, sitting him on the toilet seat and telling him to stay put while he grabs his friend some clothes. Viktor succumbs, staying silent and waiting in the washroom.

Christophe returns shortly after he left, Placing the folded garments on the counter beside the sink. Studying Viktor, he asks, “Will you be able to shower by yourself, or do you want me to help?”

Viktor seems to consider this, but soon thereafter shakes his head. Looking up at Chris, he mumbles, “ I can do it.” 

Christophe looks skeptical, but Viktor stares at his friend until he concedes, sighing in defeat. “Alright, but please call for me if you need anything. I’ll be right outside the door.” His friend nods and Chris has to hide a look of sympathy as he walks out the door and closes it behind him. Usually, his friend would insist that he would be fine, that he wouldn’t need any help. This is how Chris knew his best friend was truly at his worst.

Viktor's shower went without hindrance. It’s longer than usual, Christophe notices, but he can’t blame him, especially not when he reflects back on what his friend just went through. He eventually hears the water shut off, and Viktor emerges not too long after, face still red and puffy, but tear tracks gone and hair back to its normal, fluffy state. Chris smiles at him, and he’s gleefully surprised when he receives a small one in return. 

Viktor doesn’t move from his spot beside the washroom door, as if waiting. Chris has gone through this enough times to know what the routine is. Making sure he has Viktor’s attention, he pats his bed beside where he is, inviting his friend. With only a moment's hesitation, Viktor shuffles over to Chris’ bed, situating himself under the covers and resting his head on the other’s shoulder. Chris smiles softly, moving his arm into a position that allows him to be able to run his hand through Viktor’s hair. It seems to relax him, as Christophe can feel his muscles begin to loosen, lulling him into sleep.

Glancing at his phone, Chris picks it up with his free arm, remembering what he promised Yakov. He types out a short text to him, making sure to mention that Viktor’s safe and in bed. He then remembers Sara, and how he told her that he would meet her nearly half an hour ago. Christophe bites his lip, feeling awful, but makes sure to send her a message saying that an emergency came up and that he wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. He then focuses his attention back on Viktor, watching his fluttering eyelashes and caressing his hair dutifully. 

Once he’s sure Viktor’s asleep, he reaches across him to the bedside table and shuts off the light. Only the dull glow from the houses and street lamps outside remain, casting an almost nonexistent illumination across their room. 

It couldn’t have been long after, but when Christophe is almost asleep, he hears Viktor mutter something. “Hm?” he hums unintelligently back, just in case he heard wrong.

“Thank you, Chris,” he hears, clearer, hesitant. “Without you, I… I was going to-”

“Sh,” Christophe chastises. “You don’t have to thank me. Not for anything. You being here and alive right now is enough.”

Viktor doesn’t respond and assumingly slips back into sleep. Chris pulls Viktor closer, wondering if his friend truly, genuinely knows how much his life means to him, and endlessly loved he is. 

(He doesn’t. But Chris is determined to show him, because Viktor still has his whole life ahead of him.)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! Find me on tumblr at [hasetsu-ice](http://hasetsu-ice.tumblr.com/)! I'm open to any and all yuri on ice screaming here. :)


End file.
